


It didn't Have to Hurt

by HissHex



Series: PeterMartin Week 2020 [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Previous Canonical Major Character Death, Rip Peter, Yeats poetry, implied Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood - Freeform, just a little bit at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HissHex/pseuds/HissHex
Summary: Day 7 of PeterMartin Week - FuneralPeter's body is lost in the fog of the Lonely, never to receive a funeral, no one left to mourn him.Martin decides that they both deserve better than that in the highlands of Scotland
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: PeterMartin Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007181
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	It didn't Have to Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> This comes almost directly after my Day 6 fic for PeterMartin week and references thing from the other fics from this week. Ive loved PeterMartin week like I have loved all the ship/character weeks I have done since I started listening to TMA. This one was good, lots of angst and softness.  
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this from the start. I will be back to my random TMA NaNoWriMo stuff tomorrow.

Martin had made vague attempts to thank Jon for dragging him out of the realm of the Lonely, but the effort of social interaction after so long entrenched in the comforting isolation of the Forsaken’s embrace made it difficult. He had spent most of the journey to Scotland sitting in silence and looking out of the train window at the passing landscape.  He was so used to Peter and their shared comfortable silence that he felt trapped with Jon’s overbearing presence. He knew the other man didn’t mean to be like that, that he was doing his best to give him space. It didn’t matter, the Beholding made Jon’s presence scrape against Martin’s nerves.

The cabin was small, only ever meant for Daisy really, and it became a habit for Martin to go wandering into the highlands just to take a break from Jon. Not that he didn’t love the man, but he was just a little too much after all this time. 

He stepped out of the front door, making his way to his favourite field, one with the big shaggy cows that would crowd around the fence and let him pet their noses. It was foggy this early in the morning and it was fairly predictable that it made him think of Peter. 

  
  


Peter wouldn’t have left a body, nothing to be buried, nothing to be mourned. 

His mood turned sour at the thought. Peter died and nobody cared about it, other than Martin. 

  
  


Ripping a bunch of long grass out of the ground, Martin held it out to the cows over the tall fence as he thought about the older man. 

Peter had been manipulating him in the end, but did it matter? Did it negate everything else, the comfort and conversation and honest affection. Because no matter what anyone said, Peter had cared about him, had truly felt betrayal when Martin had refused to kill Magnus. 

He brushed his hands on his jeans, patting the cows one more time before heading up one of the hills. It was high enough that he was slightly above the fog and he sat down onto the cold damp ground with a thud and a squelch. He had managed to hike his coat up before he did so, stopping the quality material from getting dirty. 

The coat had been a gift from Peter, thick and warm and he loved to leave it in Peter’s office during the work day so that when he tugged it on to go home, it would smell of the other man, salt-water and pipe smoke and that terrible terrible scotch he loved so much. 

  
  


He started to pull little flowers from the ground and weaved them together into a messy ring that, if you were being generous, could be considered a garland.  Jon knew what he was up to, had given him a look this morning before he had left, but the other man had just given him a nod and told him that this hill had a nice view of the lake and its beach. He was right, as could be expected with Jon to be honest, the quiet sounds of waves lapping up the beach could just be heard from his high perch up on the hilltop. 

Martin pulled his thermos filled with the sweet tea that Peter had favoured when he wasn’t being pretentious and pretending to like black, unsweetened coffee. Peter had deserved better than this. He had to suppose that this was better than him being buried in Moorland House, Peter made his distaste of the place clear whenever it was brought up. Buried, surrounded by the bodies of his ancestors, the ones who had forced him along the path of the Lonely, who had made his childhood so awful, and his adult life so cold and unfulfilling. He pulled out the dark marker that he had found in one of the draws in the cabin’s kitchen and looked around for a nicely sized rock. 

The one he found was about the size of his fist, smooth and flat. He pulled the lid of the pen off with his teeth and carefully wrote onto the cold stone.  
  


_ Peter Lukas  
_ _ Died September 2018  
May death be quieter and more peaceful than your life – M.B  
  
_

He pressed the stone into the earth, lodging it firmly into the mud before pinning his little flower garland in place with a few pebbles next to it. Shaking slightly as he poured the tea into its little cup, Martin placed it before the make-shift memorial. 

He didn’t know what to say when it was all done.  Peter would have hated anything sappy and emotional, would have tutted at Martin for doing what he had so far. This little remembrance wasn’t really for Peter, it was for Martin. To give him closure, to give him peace over all that had happened. 

He stumbled to get out a half-remember prayer from the days where his mother would drag him to church but it kind of felt disrespectful and disingenuous on both sides.  His memories of the Lukas funeral Peter had dragged him to was a lot of silence and standing around.  Eventually he gave up his stuttering nonsense and got back up. He poured the tea out onto the ground and put the thermos and the pen back into his backpack. Martin hadn’t realised he had been crying, but as he stood up he felt the wind chill the tear tracks on his face. He rubbed his tears away and placed a single page of poetry, copied from a book that had been given to him not that long ago, under the garland – still pinned by the pebbles. The book of poetry had been one of his favourite gifts from Peter, the one that seemed the most heart-felt. He took a deep breath and made his way back down the hill and back to the cabin. 

  
  


“ _Never give all the heart, for love  
Will hardly seem worth thinking of  
To passionate women if it seem  
Certain, and they never dream  
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;  
For everything that's lovely is  
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.  
O never give the heart outright,  
For they, for all smooth lips can say,  
Have given their hearts up to the play.  
And who could play it well enough  
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?  
He that made this knows all the cost,  
For he gave all his heart and lost.”_

_Never give all the heart - W. B. Yeats_


End file.
